


Secret History

by Morgan (morgan32)



Series: Secrets [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-19
Updated: 2009-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:57:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between the episodes <i>Something Wicked</i> and <i>Deliverance</i>. After MacLeod’s dark quickening, Joe calls Methos for help. Methos remembers his darkest past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

####  **Athens, 1995**

It was almost three o'clock in the morning, but Methos was awake when the phone call came. He was lying in bed, watching the woman sleeping beside him, enjoying the moonlit silence. The phone broke into his contented mood like a brick shattering glass. Methos resisted the urge to swear and snatched up the phone before it could wake Alexa.

"Adam Pierson," he said testily.

He heard a click, then a woman's bored voice. "Connecting your call now, sir."

He waited a second for the operator to clear the line, then repeated, "Adam Pierson."

"Adam, it's Joe. I hope I'm not…interrupting anything."

Methos glanced again at Alexa's blonde head on the pillow beside him. He kept his voice quiet so he wouldn't disturb her, but did not trouble to hide his irritation. "Joe, it's three o'clock in the morning. Of course you interrupted something. My sleep."

"Sorry."

Not in a mood to be conciliatory, Methos snapped, "Well, get to the point. If you woke me at this hour for small talk you're going to be _so_ glad we're on different continents."

"I didn't call for small talk." Joe hesitated for a heartbeat, then asked  bluntly, "What do you know about dark quickenings?"

It was, though Methos didn't learn that until later, precisely the question MacLeod had posed to Joe Dawson, less than twenty four hours earlier.

For Methos, the memory that accompanied Joe's question was so strong that for a moment, just a moment, he was there again. On the deck of the ship, the stench of rotting seaweed filling his lungs, and the taste of his own blood in his mouth. He felt, again, the impact of the axe on his ribs, felt the pain, heard his bones crack and tasted blood in his mouth in the moment before everything went black. He heard, as he had heard in so many dreams, his son's shouted challenge; the beginning of a battle Methos had never witnessed, except in those dreams. He had been dead when it happened.

"Adam…?"

Joe's voice brought him back to the present. His mouth suddenly dry, Methos reached for the glass of water beside the bed. "More than I ever wanted to," he answered succinctly. He sipped some water.

Alexa stirred beside him, but didn't wake.

"Can it be…cured?"

The memories were stronger still; a day of blood and fire, men and women falling at the point of his sword…days later, washing blood from his clothes, watching the others surreptitiously as he worked…cruel laughter ringing in his ears…a boy he had loved, still did love, forever changed…

"Cured? A dark quickening?" He might have laughed, had the memories been less bitter. "No." And then another memory, more recent: walking through a garden in Paris with Darius, who had a theory - no more than that - about this very subject. "Not," he amended, "in my experience. Darius thought it was possible."

There was silence.

Dread rising within him, aware that he didn't really want to hear the answer, Methos asked, "Joe, what's happened?"

"It's MacLeod."

***

####  **PART ONE**

####  **Kalliste, 1628 BCE**

Bethia pressed up against his body as Methos slowly unlaced her bodice. Her ebony hair was loose, tumbling in heavy waves down her back. The bodice fell open and she sighed. The sigh was echoed by Methos as he traced the curve of her neck with his fingertips, teasing her. One hand supporting her back, he bent to kiss her.

Tonight, he needed her badly, needed to lose himself in her, and he knew she would be happy to give what he needed.

A loud knock at the door interrupted them. It was accompanied by an immortal presence. Methos muttered a curse and went to the door, refastening his clothing hurriedly.

Bethia called after him, "Stay calm, remember!" She didn't sound disturbed.

He glanced back over his shoulder with a forced smile. _Calm_ was difficult in these tense days, particularly when he was interrupted like that, and especially when their unwanted visitor was an immortal. He opened the bedroom door.

Any possibility of calmness fled when he saw Kronos there. "What are you doing in my house?" Methos demanded. He wouldn't trouble to be polite with this man.

The scarred immortal sketched a mocking bow. "Thank you for the welcome, General."

_General_ hadn't been his title for more than a decade, and Kronos knew it. Methos felt Bethia's calming hand on his back as she came to his side. He ignored the attempt to provoke, because he knew she wanted him to keep his temper. "Well?" he asked Kronos.

"At the temple," Kronos said. His eyes flickered to Bethia, gleaming as he noted her dishevelled state, then back to Methos. "I hope I didn't spoil your...pleasures."

Methos saw the glance Kronos directed at Bethia, and didn't like it. Nor would he be drawn by cryptic pronouncements. "_What_ is at the temple?" he demanded impatiently.

"A better show than the bull dancers if you don't hurry." Kronos' smile was amused.

Methos' heart sank. He didn't trust Kronos, but trouble had been brewing for weeks: he was probably telling the truth. He looked at Bethia apologetically.

"You're not going…" she began.

"If there's trouble, Priestess Teryssa will send for me soon anyway." He kissed her briefly on her lips. "I'll be back before you know it." He was out the door before she could argue further.

At the temple he found a crowd gathered…no, not a crowd, more like a mob. It was early evening, and some carried torches; Methos wasn't naïve enough to think they were for light. He glanced at Kronos, who had kept pace with him. "What's going on?" The mood of the crowd was ugly.

"I assumed you'd know," Kronos told him.

The man's sarcasm was becoming more than irritating. Methos ignored it and pushed his way through the crowd. He heard a shout: "It's him!" and simultaneously became aware that Kronos wasn't with him. He grew even more confused. There was a ring of guards around the temple. They let him through, but the bronze temple gates were closed. Through the lattice, he saw Teryssa within and called to her.

Teryssa wore dark red; the colour of death. Her white hair was covered with a veil of the same hue. In the darkness of the temple, her clothing drained her face of colour; she almost looked like a ghost herself. It brought home to Methos how old she was now. Mortal. Dying. He had known her since she was a child small enough to run beneath his horse. Teryssa turned at Methos' call and walked to the gate, but she didn't come close.

"Why are you here, General?"

Methos was accustomed to formality from Teryssa and she always accorded him the courtesy of his former title. Methos guessed it was a hard habit for her to break; she had known him as the General most of her life. Teryssa was both the highest ranked priestess on the island of Kalliste and one of the secular leaders of Keftiu. Methos considered her a friend. But her voice was cold tonight; that was unusual. He answered her question as calmly as he could, "Kro… someone told me I should come."

Behind him he heard someone shout his name. He didn't turn, keeping his eyes on the priestess.

Teryssa hesitated so long he was sure she was going to turn him away. Finally she nodded, closing her eyes briefly. "Perhaps it is best. Enter." She gestured, and the gate was opened for him. "Come," she said.

Methos followed.

When he realised she was leading him toward the sanctum, Methos hesitated. He had lived on the island of Kalliste for nearly two centuries, he was at home here and accepted, but he was still an Outsider. Outsiders were not permitted in the inner temple.

"Come," Teryssa repeated.

She was priestess…and she was someone Methos trusted. The sacrilege - if sacrilege his presence was - would be her responsibility. He followed her. There was a painted frieze on the wall as they descended the stone steps. In the darkness, the figures depicted almost seemed to move. The air turned cold as they went deeper into the earth, and he caught the scent of incense ahead of them.

The sanctum was dim, lit by tallow candles in stone jars. A thin curtain concealed most of the room from his sight. Before the curtain, two bodies were laid out. Both of them were women.

_Two of them?_ Methos thought. This was obviously what Teryssa wanted him to see. He looked at her, seeking guidance. She simply nodded. Methos took a deep breath of the incense-rich air and moved closer to the bodies. He recognised neither of the women. But he _did_ recognise what had been done to them. The first had been decapitated. Cleanly. A single blow from something extremely sharp…probably a war axe. The second had died from blood loss; her throat had been cut, equally cleanly.

That was unexpected. The others were all killed in the same way.

Both women had been dressed for burial, but Methos didn't need to see more. He knew what injuries the ceremonial cloths would conceal. Bruises and lacerations from a brutal rape before the death. Two of the first three killed had been cut open afterwards. The killer took something different from each of them; why, Methos couldn't guess. Someone interrupted him the third time.

"The same?" he asked quietly. These two made five deaths. Five murders.

"Yes."

Methos felt cold. Kalliste was his home. A home on holy ground, among people who knew what he was and accepted his kind, if warily. It was the place he had raised a family. A refuge.

"Why are you showing me this? In here?"

"Because this is where they lie. And because I wanted you to see the shroud."

_Shroud? What shroud?_ For a moment Methos was confused. Then he realised she was referring to the curtain. He looked at it more closely and saw a subtle image painted on the cloth. That was strange. The Keftians painted on wood or on stone, but never that he had seen before on cloth. The shroud was ancient. The image on it had probably been as gaudily coloured as the temple frescoes when it was made, but now it was faded with age, and in the candle-lit sanctum Methos saw only shades of brown. He suppressed a shiver of awe. The shroud was truly ancient. It might be older than he was.

The shroud's faded colours depicted a winged human figure. Keftian artists used skin colour to indicate the sex of the figures they painted: female figures were pale, male figures dark. But the shroud was so faded it was impossible to guess the shade, and the obvious physical attributes that should have shown the figure's sex were obscured. The face was gaunt, almost skeletal.

"When I was a child," Teryssa said softly, "this spectre haunted my dreams long before I ever saw it here, on the great shroud." Her voice took on a chanting cadence as she spoke. "From the day I first saw you, during my novitiate, the spectre in my dreams had your face. I feared it, and so I feared you, but you taught me to conquer my fear. Tonight, I believe I understand the vision for the first time."

"The spectre is death," Methos heard himself say. He understood little of this. Teryssa was revered as a seer, and while Methos was sceptical about such things he did know she was no charlatan. A vision of death with his face? What did that mean? He hadn't killed anyone since he came to Kalliste, hadn't even taken a head....well, except in the war, but that could hardly be called murder. So why would Teryssa see death in him now?

Teryssa nodded, confirming his words. "Today a spectre of death hovers over our city, General. The people gathering in the temple plaza understand, as I now understand, that the end of this lies with you."

Methos swallowed. "You hold me responsible for this?" His gesture indicated the bodies before them.

She did not answer at once. "I do not hold you to blame," she said eventually.

Methos understood. Teryssa did not believe he was guilty, but she did consider him responsible. As they both knew others would. It made sense. There was no point in trying to explain to these people that the nature of immortals' lives kept them solitary, independent. They were expected to be a community because other Outsiders were. And as Methos held some standing in Keftiu, however reluctantly, he was held responsible for that non-existent community. He had told Teryssa himself that he suspected an immortal hand in these murders.

He looked at the priestess. "What do you want of me?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"These women were not your kind, Methos. Who could have done this thing?"

_Kronos_, he thought instantly, the scarred face with the smiling blue eyes rose quickly before his mind's eye. But Methos had no evidence, only instinct. He knew himself well enough to recognise that his own dislike of Kronos might be warping his judgement. Kronos' obvious interest in Bethia didn't engender his trust, either. He refused to voice the accusation.

"Not me, or mine," Methos said. Of that much he was certain. Kaspian wasn't capable of this and Bethia…if she had murdered before, it was never without reason.

Teryssa stepped close to him then, laying one hand over his heart. "This I know. I remember how much you have done for us. They do not."

_Bethia's hand stroked his cheek gently. "Will you tell me what is on your mind?" she whispered. _

_She was upset that he wasn't in the mood to make love to her. Methos turned to face her, getting tangled in the sheets again as he moved. "Priestess Teryssa sent for me again today," he said. _

_Bethia's hair, free of its usual severe braid, was spread across the pillow and he brought a strand to his lips. She smiled._

_Methos sighed. "It's the murders. She thinks an immortal is responsible. She wanted my advice." With Bethia's encouragement, Methos explained the evidence he had heard and seen._

_Bethia, no stranger to violence and murder, wasn't shocked by the details. She was shocked by his belief that an immortal was to blame. "It doesn't make sense, Methos. Any man could have killed those women. One of us couldn't. Kalliste is holy ground."_

_He shook his head. "Each of the women was found on the edges of the island. Beaches, cliffs."_

_"Even so…" she began to object._

_"Bethie." His fingertips on her mouth silenced her._

_"You have a suspect in mind, don't you?" she pressed._

_Reluctantly, Methos nodded. "Kronos. I don't trust him. He's not the type to seek refuge on holy ground, and he arrived here a few days before the first death."_

_"That doesn't make him a killer," Bethia had said gently. She kissed him, then lay back in the bed. Methos reached for her, holding her against him gently, and after a while, they both slept._

"Methos?" Teryssa's voice broke into the recollection.

He looked at her again. Teryssa had been a child when the war she referred to was fought. They weren't a warlike people, these Keftians. Fifty years before, when battle came to their shores, their defence had been worse than pathetic. Methos, the Outsider, had defended his home, nothing more. In doing so he found unwanted leadership thrust on him, but once he had accepted the position he enjoyed it. Battle was in his blood, death was part and parcel of who he was. It had earned him acceptance, and status in Kalliste.

Methos was grateful for Teryssa's trust, however misplaced it might be. "I will find the one responsible, priestess. You have my word. Tonight, however, I think I should go home. With your permission."


	2. Chapter 2

What in the Lady's name had possessed him to _walk_ to the temple? Leaving through a side gate to avoid the crowd, Methos would have given anything he had for a horse. He couldn't run: that would draw attention and that was the last thing he wanted.

He knew that the city was tense. Five murders, now, in a society with almost no violent crime. Murder was unknown in Keftiu. Men died in battle, and on rare occasions in brawls, but deliberate cold-blooded murder simply didn't happen. Neither did violence toward women. The murders made people scared, and suspicious.

The Keftians were a close-knit society; Outsiders were Outsiders. Most Outsiders on the island lived in enclaves within the city, rather than among the Keftians, though that was tradition and not law. Within the enclaves Outsiders were encouraged to administer their own justice, according to the laws of their own tribes, with the Keftian authorities intervening only when absolutely necessary. It was a system that worked well, most of the time. A few Outsiders were able to become part of Keftian society, as Methos had done, but they were the exceptions.

The murders had shaken the people out of their complacency, however. It was natural for fear to become anger, and the natural target of their anger was the Outsiders. No one, Methos included, believed a Keftian was responsible. But, even when he himself had seen the evidence, Methos hadn't thought - or hadn't wanted to believe - that suspicion and fear would turn on him or those he loved.

Reaching his home, he called out to Bethia as he headed straight for the bedroom they shared. He opened a chest and began to pull out his clothing. At the bottom of the chest - and that in itself spoke volumes - he found his weapons. Weapons he hadn't habitually worn for a decade and hadn't used - except to spar or teach - since the last war. He armed himself quickly: a bronze short sword belted around his waist, a knife strapped to his left leg, another to his arm.

Bethia appeared in the doorway as he finished. "What's happening?"

"We've got trouble."

Why had he not seen this coming? Was he too comfortable here? Of course he was: two centuries in one place. He hadn't allowed himself to believe it could end.

Bethia was at the window. She turned to him, her eyes wide. "They're coming."

Cursing under his breath, Methos ran to the window. He saw - and heard - the gathering crowd. Now it was no longer a crowd…it was a mob. They were minutes away. "We don't have much time, Bethie. Let's go."

"Where?"

"The temple. Teryssa will shelter us, I hope." He didn't want to think about what might happen if she wouldn't.

"I'll get Kaspian," she said.

"No!" Methos snapped. Bethia's eyes opened in shock. He reconsidered quickly. She wouldn't leave without knowing Kaspian was safe. He was worried about the lad, too, but Bethia was his focus. She was the woman he loved. "I'll take care of Kas. Get out of here, Bethie. Please."

"Be safe," she whispered. She ran for the door.

She was an experienced warrior; Methos trusted her to do as she was told. He still felt protective toward her, but she was more than capable of looking after herself. Possibly more so than_ he_ was at the moment. Kaspian was another matter. Kaspian was raised as a Keftian; His single sea battle wasn't enough experience to help him cope with this.

Their villa was open-plan, three storeys built around a central courtyard. Kaspian's rooms were the opposite side of the building. Between Methos and where he needed to be, the courtyard stood open, the gate unbarred. There had never been any need to lock it.

He would never make it across the courtyard before they got here. Trusting to luck, he returned to the window. Climbing out onto the ledge, he reached up for the edge of the roof. Getting a firm grip, he hauled himself up. The roof was slightly sloped at the edges but flat in the middle. Staying low, just in case someone looked up, he moved across the roof as quickly as he could. Beneath him, there were flaming torches, and shouting. The outer wall of the house was stone, but inside everything except the pillars was made of timber or clay and wattle. It couldn't withstand a fire. Methos heard something break, and felt the roof shake beneath his feet.

Methos glanced back at his living quarters and saw the room in flames. Fire would spread quickly in this dry heat: he had to move fast. Burning to death wasn't pleasant: Methos had no wish to go through that again. He crouched at the edge of the roof, looking down. Several people were already entering. He would be too late…

Then he heard a cry from below him. Kaspian, shouting a challenge, wielding a burning torch, charged into the mob. _Subtle, boy._ Methos sighed. _I taught you better than that._ He drew his sword and leapt from the roof into the fray.

***

Kaspian saw Methos' leap on the periphery of his vision. He thrust his torch into the face of the nearest man, forcing him to fall back. It cleared a path for Kaspian to reach Methos' side. Kaspian knew they were fighting for their lives. But he had no idea why they were being attacked. He _did_ know how to defend himself.

"Kas! Take this!" Methos shouted as Kaspian reached his side. Methos' eyes were wild, his hair loose about his face. He had a knife in his hand. Kaspian took it quickly, grasping the blade. As he turned the knife in his hand, he hesitated momentarily, stunned by the realisation that Methos was afraid.

Methos had taught Kaspian to fight; had drilled him with every weapon he knew until his actions were as automatic as drawing breath. That training served them both now. Knowing intuitively what was needed, Kaspian turned to face the crowd, wielding both dagger and torch as weapons. The two immortals fought back to back, edging toward the open gate.

It felt wrong. Kaspian had fought for his life before, when his ship was raided by the Akhaians. He had killed men in that battle. Methos taught him well; Kas never hesitated to strike when he had to. But these people were Keftian. Why were his own people now his enemies?

And suddenly the way to the gate was clear. "Methos!" Kaspian shouted.

"Kas, go!"

Kaspian obeyed, running for the opening. As he ran, he shoved the knife into his belt. He heard a scream behind him and looked back. It couldn't have been Methos' voice he heard, but Methos wasn't with him.

Kaspian threw the torch back at the people. He ducked into to doorway of another villa. Looking back at his own home, he saw no sign of Methos.

Kaspian fought a different enemy then: panic. He had no idea what was happening, and nowhere to go. He needed Methos, or Bethia. Methos couldn't fight his way through that crowd alone. They needed help…

Kronos! The Akhaian immortal was a great warrior. Kaspian took off at a run, seeking help.

***

Methos saw Kaspian's escape but before he could follow the crowd surged toward him again. He lifted the sword and began to fight. In the end, though, it was the sheer numbers that overwhelmed him. Methos found himself held down, helpless, the sword gone from his hand.

He heard a woman's scream and forced his head up. Fear flooded his veins with adrenaline.

"Bethia!" he shouted. "No!"

And saw the axe come down.

He watched her head fall, uncomprehending. He heard the shouts around him turn to cheers. Saw a man holding a bloodied axe raise it in triumph, then meet Methos' eyes. That look was the last of reality Methos knew. Bethia's quickening slammed into him like an avalanche. Energy surrounded him as her remembered scream rang in his head and blue-white fire stole his vision.

Methos screamed.

Bethia had been his entire world. Now she became his world in another way. He lived her terrified first death, knew the fear and anger that had driven her since that day. He felt her love for him in his heart and in his blood and it was painful. Lightning spiralled upward into the night, taking Methos with it. In his mind the very sky was aflame.

Then it came down and somewhere below, deep in the earth, the quickening fire touched fire of a different kind…and was gone.

It was over.

The quickening left him exhausted, shaking on the ground. In that moment Methos was barely rational, but as the room and the people swam back into his vision he knew that he was next. Understood that there was no escape, no controlling these people. Hands that had set him free in fear of the quickening took hold of him again, holding him down. Methos couldn't stop shaking.

It wasn't fear that caused his body to shake, nor the quickening. Methos was shaking because the ground shook. Thunder came from deep within the earth, louder by far than a storm. The anger of the people turned to fear and he found himself free once more. Free only to cling to the earth beneath him as fire raged all around and the building that had been his home for a century began to crack and fall.

Seconds seemed like hours until the shuddering of the earth began to die away. In the silence that followed, Methos struggled to his knees, but he wasn't the only one who did so.

He saw his lover's body lying nearby, blood pooling around her severed neck. He saw the man who had taken her life begin to rise. He saw the bloodied axe glinting on the ground between them. Methos snatched up the weapon, rage filling him. The axe felt good in his hands. He rose to his feet, looking down at his enemy. He hesitated for one reason only: he remembered he stood on holy ground. The man wasn't immortal, though, and what more could Methos lose? His hesitation lasted only a moment.

Some things an immortal doesn't forget, however long the skills might go unused. How to kill is one of those things. Methos waited until the man met his eyes. He wanted to see the knowledge of death dawn on the bastard. And then he hefted the axe and swung. Not at the neck, as he would have done if the man were immortal, but lower, angled to the man's shoulder. He felt the collarbone shatter beneath his blow. The mortal's scream mirrored Bethia's. Methos yanked the axe free, knowing he had delivered a fatal blow. It might take the man some time to die, but he would die. It felt good.

Something struck him from behind and he staggered. As he turned to face his attacker, someone else wrenched the axe from his hand. Methos swore, shocked that he could be taken so easily. He still wore a knife; instantly it was in his hand. But it was already too late. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't kill them all with a single dagger.

An immortal presence knifed into his awareness. Kaspian? He heard a voice shouting his name over the roar of the flames. Then the neigh of a horse…no, two horses. One of them reared, forcing the crowd to part. As the horse came down, thrashing hooves inches from Methos' face, the horseman's blue eyes met his. A hand reached out to him. Instinctively he grasped the hand, leaping onto the horse behind Kronos. He clung to his unlikely rescuer as the horse reared again, scattering the mob. Moments later they were riding out of the city.

Methos was silent as they rode. His heart beat with a rhythm not his own and his blood burned. He could barely see.

Kronos had been living in the Akhaian enclave. He did not, however, head for home. The city streets were full of people as he rode, people milling around in confusion. Kronos rode at a gallop into the darkness outside the city, Methos clinging to his back. He took them west along the cliffs until the city was far behind them.

It was only when they stopped that Methos realised Kaspian was with them: he was the second horseman. It was that fact - he hadn't even noticed another immortal presence - that finally woke him up. He slid down from the horse, brushing his sweat-damp hair out of his eyes. Ignoring Kronos for the moment, he went to Kaspian as the boy leapt from his own mount.

_Boy_. He still thought of Kaspian as a child. He wasn't a child any more. Kaspian was a man, and an immortal. And Bethia was the only mother he had ever known.

Kaspian's face was in shadow. He faced Methos, one hand still on the horse's bridle.

Methos, his blood still thrumming with the fire of an unwanted quickening, could only look at him. "Kaspian…" he began. His voice sounded very far away.

"That was a quickening," Kaspian accused. "Who did you kill?"

Methos' heart sank. Kaspian hadn't been immortal for long and he had never experienced a quickening. Would he believe that Methos hadn't taken her head? He _had_ to. "I didn't kill anyone, Kaspian. _They_ killed her. Bethie."

"I saw it. But I…I thought… It can wait."

Methos nodded, relieved. He felt Kronos at his side and turned to him. "Thanks. I owe you."

"We can camp here tonight. It should be safe." Kronos eyed Methos with uncharacteristic concern. "That was holy ground. Will you be alright?"

"No," Methos answered shortly, moving away.

***

The stars above were bright. Methos lay awake, watching the stars. The stars had been as bright the night he found Bethia…

_She was a slave. Methos found her dying in a stinking midden, the marks of abuse on her body mute evidence of the violence she had suffered. In that quarter, a murdered slave was a tragic, but not uncommon sight. Methos knew better than to get involved with such things. Mortal life was cheap._

_But the slave girl's immortal signature called to him. It wasn't the signature of an experienced immortal. It was fresh, new. The girl's first death, her immortality transforming from potential to reviving power. Methos sighed, letting the pack fall from his shoulder as he knelt beside the girl. He lifted her hair away from her face. She didn't react to his touch, and she wasn't breathing. He saw her wounds beginning to close. There wasn't much time._

_"Get away from there!" _

_At the peremptory shout, Methos stood, turning to face the speaker. He was a heavily built man dressed in fine clothes. Methos stepped in front of the girl, shielding her body from the man's sight. Methos wore a travelling priest's robes; he was no priest, but it was the safest guise in these parts. It also gave him a little power. He fixed the man with a stern gaze and waited for recognition._

_After a few moments, he saw a flicker of fear in the man's eyes. But the man said nothing, only returned Methos' stare._

_"The girl is dying," Methos said. "Is she yours?"_

_"What is your interest, priest?" the man demanded. His voice was challenging, but his body language was defensive: he was nervous._

_Methos knelt again. He removed his outer cloak, laying it gently over the girl's body to conceal the healing of her wounds. "If she's yours," he said, with his back to the man, "I'll buy her from you." He covered her mouth with his hand as she took a sharp breath, her eyes flying open. He leaned close, speaking quietly. "Stay down and stay quiet if you want to live."_

_Behind him, the man laughed. "Buy a dying slave? Are you mad?"_

_"She isn't dead yet. I may be able to save her. I can at least help her to die with some dignity." He reached for the purse at his belt. "Is she yours?" he repeated._

_"She is."_

_Methos threw the purse at him. "If that's not enough, I'll be at the temple near the south gate until dawn two days from now." As if his offer had already been accepted, he gathered the girl into his arms. She was thin, and weighed very little. He was able to hold her with one hand while he shouldered his pack again, then cradling her more gently he began to walk away. The man made no move to stop him. _

Bethia, a Hebrew girl, was terrified when Methos carried her into the temple of a heathen god. The temple was holy ground, though, and his priest's robes gained him entry. It wasn't difficult to persuade her to stay; she was a slave, and he had bought her. Methos took advantage of that to begin with. He became her teacher, and in the years that followed he helped a beaten down slave girl transform into a confident young warrior.

Some ten years after her first death, a continent away from the place they met, Bethia left her teacher. Almost a century later, she had admitted to Methos that she returned to the man who had killed her, for revenge. Methos hadn't asked her what form her revenge had taken. He hadn't needed to. By then, Bethia had become a remarkable woman, and a remarkable immortal. Beautiful, clever…and deadly. In that century Bethia and Methos had become lovers, but the relationship hadn't lasted. Bethia was a wanderer at heart. She couldn't settle in one place, or with one man, for long.

_She carried a longbow in her hand, an arrow nocked and ready. The rocky ground beneath her feet was warm, heated by the flames that had swept through the small village. Smoke still rose from the ruined houses. She wrinkled her nose as a change of the wind brought the sickly smell of burned flesh. The smell brought back memories of her childhood, her mother's screams… Bethia shook her head to clear the memory. As she did, she became aware of something else. A sense of presence._

_It wasn't an immortal presence. She hadn't felt anything quite like this before. She moved toward it. Burnt wood cracked beneath her boots as she entered what was left of one of the shacks. There were two bodies among the ashes: a man and a woman. Her senses heightened by danger, she could hear someone breathing. _

_And there in the corner she found him. A boy, no older than five, cowering against the wall of his ruined home. The presence she felt was coming from the child. He wasn't an immortal, but she could feel the potential in him. She frowned, trying to remember what Methos had told her about this. She waited, listening, but there was no one else near. No one alive, at least. _

_Bethia set her bow aside and knelt in the ash-covered ground. She reached out toward the boy with one hand. "Hello," she began, softly._

Methos started awake. He remembered Bethia telling him about that day, but the dream had been too vivid. A memory. His eyes filled with tears as he was reminded anew what that meant. Bethia's memories in his dreams. She was gone…forever.

The boy hadn't been able to tell her his name, so Bethia named him Kaspian. It took her almost a year to reach Kalliste with the child. She had denied knowing Methos was living there when they encountered each other, but he understood, now, that she had known, and had hoped to find him there. Methos was glad to welcome them both. They raised the boy together.

Immortals couldn't have children. It had been a fact of Methos' life, all of his life. He had been married many times before, for love, or convenience or companionship, but raising a family had never been part of it. Living with Bethia and Kaspian was the first time Methos had been a father. It was quite an experience. He was surprised by how much he came to care for the boy. More, it sometimes seemed, than Bethia, who had been struck by wanderlust again as soon as Kaspian was grown. By that time, though, their "family" was well established, and when she left them she hadn't said goodbye. She said "until I return".

_"I wish you wouldn't go," Methos told her. He held her hands in his, stepping back to look at her. She had exchanged her Keftian dress for leather travelling clothes. Methos understood her wanderlust: he had felt the same need himself for centuries. He knew she had to leave them, but he knew, now, that she would return. She had a home to return to._

_Bethia smiled, lifting a callused hand to his face. "You could come with me."_

_"Bethie, I have a life here. A job to do."_

_"Protecting these mortals? Methos, they're not like us. Why would you fight their battles?"_

_"No, they're not like us. But they're good people. There aren't many places where immortals would be welcomed and allowed to live openly as we do here."_

_"Not many," she agreed. She kissed him again, on the tip of his nose, making him laugh. "Each time we meet, love, the reunion is sweeter. I **will** come back…if I live."_

Methos heard a thunder-like rumble from the restless earth. Remembering the earthquake of the night before, Methos looked east, suddenly aware of what he would see. The volcano that gave Kalliste its hot springs and winter warmth, the volcano the priestesses called the "Voice of the Goddess", the reason Kalliste was holy ground…the volcano that had slept for so long was beginning to wake.

The thunder signalled an aftershock, but that was mild, nothing like the violent earthquake that had accompanied the quickening. It was enough to terrify the horses, though, and to wake the sleeping immortals. It was enough to remind Methos of the night before. The coincidence stayed in his thoughts…the quickening…the earthquake…holy ground. Could there be a connection? The quickening had been powerful, more powerful than Bethia's quickening should have been.

As the aftershock died away, Methos saw a column of smoke above the sleeping volcano rising into the sky. The wind was taking the smoke away from the land, but the wind would change. If that volcano was truly the voice of their Lady, it seemed she was a little angry.


	3. Chapter 3

"Did you sleep at all?"

Kronos' voice broke into Methos' reverie. "A little," he answered shortly. "Not much."

"You still don't trust me, do you?"

"Is there some reason I should?"

"Your woman wasn't the only immortal killed last night, Methos!" Kronos said harshly. "If we want to survive, we are _all _brothers today."

Methos shook his head. "All of us, but one." He looked directly at Kronos.

"I saved your _life_ last night! What more do you want?"

Methos turned away from him. "My life was destroyed last night." It was only as he spoke that the reality hit him. It wasn't just losing Bethia…he had lost everything now. His home and his wealth, his place in this community. Everything.

"Your life?" Kronos clapped a hand on his shoulder, forcing Methos to face him. "You are _immortal_!"

"So was Bethia!" Methos' shout carried. In the periphery of his vision, he saw Kaspian walking toward them.

Kronos' hand still gripped his shoulder, painfully tight. "Then take your revenge, Methos," he said urgently.

"Oh…I intend to." Methos raised his eyes to Kronos'. "Now take your hand off me before you lose it."

He walked away when Kronos released him, and kept walking to the edge of the cliff. He looked down. The sea below was eerily calm.

He had barely escaped with his life. He had no weapons, and now he owed his life to the man he suspected had committed the murders that began this. He glanced over his shoulder to Kaspian. A quick look was enough: Kaspian was as unarmed as he. Methos couldn't challenge Kronos now.

At least…not with weapons.

And it was true, Kronos _had_ saved his life last night. For reasons of his own, no doubt, but their purposes might work in tandem…for a time.

"Kronos," he said, turning to face the immortal again. "Bethia died because five mortal women have been murdered," Methos said, his voice cold. "I don't know who stirred up the riot last night, but I _do_ know that whoever killed those women is partly to blame. And I know that person is one of us." He looked directly at Kronos. "You asked what you have to do for me to trust you. Tell me you know nothing about those deaths."

"If you don't trust me, why would you believe a denial?"

Methos noted the evasion, but said nothing.

Kronos' eyes never left his. "I haven't killed anyone since I came to Kalliste. But to tell you I know nothing…Methos, are you certain it was an immortal?"

"Absolutely." Methos didn't explain. Five women, all from Kalliste, all killed outside the city walls, and therefore away from the temple's land. Two of them found on the beach, two near the walls, but they hadn't died there. All killed with an axe, or a sharp sword, in a land where such weapons were conspicuous. The third death had been witnessed - two people saw a hooded figure leap from the cliff. It happened at low tide; the man who leapt should have been killed, or at least gravely injured, on the rocks below. But no body had been found. Circumstantial evidence, all of it. Methos found it compelling. He told Kronos none of it.

Kronos hesitated, looking out to sea. "Then…I may know who you're looking for."

Kaspian rounded on them both. "You know? _Kronos!_"

"There's a ship moored off the eastern cliffs. It has a crew of three: the captain is immortal. I came to Keftiu to find him. The reason isn't important now. I discovered the ship yesterday; I was coming to ask for your help, Methos, when I found that crowd at the temple."

"Why are you so sure it's him?" Methos asked, still suspicious. If Kronos wanted this captain, Methos was sure he was capable of lying about this.

"When you see his ship, you'll think so, too."

***

Kronos' cryptic statement made sense when Methos saw the ship. She was barely seaworthy, anchored about a mile out to sea. Even from the distance, her purpose was clear. She was a slaver.

As his eyes focussed on the deck, Methos saw more. Chains, a cage, an odd bench…tools of a trade Methos was familiar with. He had owned slaves in the past, and had no moral objections to the institution. Any stable and wealthy society owed its stability to ownership of slaves. But slavers often enjoyed their trade too much, and this ship said a great deal about her master.

An ironic smile touched his lips briefly. It seemed there was a first time for everything: he agreed with Kronos.

"Kronos was right," Kaspian said, voicing Methos' thought.

Methos nodded.

"Do you want to go to Priestess Teryssa? She will give us a ship."

Methos frowned, staring at Kaspian. Did the boy not understand? "No," he said firmly. "This is immortal business now."

Teryssa was as guilty as the master of that ship out there. The riot began at her temple. The crowd would have listened to her; she could have prevented Bethia's death if she had tried. Teryssa could have bought him time to seek the real killer. She had chosen not to…because of a childish dream.

Now, Methos would repay her with her worst nightmare.

"But this is holy ground," Kaspian pointed out.

"The ship isn't. We'll wait until after dark." The ship's captain would feel them coming, but darkness would give them a slight edge.

They began to walk away from the edge. There were some bushes a short distance away; that would be adequate cover until dark.

"Methos…"

"No," Methos interrupted, knowing what was coming. "It's _my_ fight, Kas."

"She meant just as much to me."

"I know. But you've never fought an immortal - not to the death. You've never taken a head. Kronos said this man is old. You won't be strong enough to take him. I am."

He lived to regret that boast.

***

_"How about some wine?" Methos suggested. He managed not to laugh but couldn't suppress a smile at the look Kaspian gave him before he went to get the wine. Kaspian was almost thirty years old, but he seemed as eager as a teenager today. Methos enjoyed teasing his son, but perhaps it was time to stop. The lad was so excited he could barely stand still._

_"Well?" Kaspian demanded as Methos took a cup of win from his hand. "What did they say?"_

_"Let's sit down, Kas." Methos led the way to the table and waited while Kaspian sat. "You were raised here, Kaspian, but you weren't born here. They still consider you an Outsider."_

_His face fell. "So they said no." He pushed his hair back with both hands, revealing the fresh tattoos on his scalp._

_Methos shook his head. "They also know you're the best hunter on the island. Kas, they said yes."_

_"Really?" He was a little boy again, all shining eyes and smiles._

_Methos nodded, but added, "There's a condition, Kaspian. They can't stop you from competing: there isn't actually a rule forbidding it, you're just the first Outsider for a long time who has wanted to. But you **are** an Outsider. If you win, you will have to nominate someone else to take your place for the ceremonies. You can't enter the sanctum."_

_Kaspian frowned. "So I can risk my life for them, but their goddess doesn't want me?"_

_"That's right. I'm sorry, Kas. I did everything I could."_

_Kaspian poured a cup of wine for himself and drank. "I'm not sorry. Methos, I don't care about their goddess. The only gods I believe in are the ones I see. I want to **compete**. I want to win."_

_"Then you have what you wanted," Methos told him. He could see Kaspian's disappointment. It was unlikely to be the last time. It was hard, being different. The tattoos, the Games: they were all Kas desperately trying to fit in to a society that rarely accepted Outsiders._

_But Kaspian was all smiles again. "Yes! I have what I wanted." _

_Methos did laugh, then. The lad's enthusiasm was infectious. He drained his cup quickly, wondering if Bethia would make it back in time to watch the games. Kaspian would be so happy if she was there, too. _

_"Well, if you're going to win," Methos cautioned him, "you need to start practicing. There's more to the games than throwing spears, you know."_

_It had been harder than Methos admitted to persuade the elders to allow Kaspian to compete in the annual games. The "prize" was a place in the ceremonies that followed, and the ceremony always took place in the temple. Since the inner temple was forbidden to Outsiders, few even offered to compete: there was little point. Kaspian had wanted this badly, though, so Methos had tried for him. _

_The games tested many skills, from hunting skills to craftsmanship. Kaspian was a talented metalworker, and Methos had made sure he had learned all the skills of a warrior. He was acutely aware of Kaspian's latent immortality. If it ever happened, Methos wanted the young man he thought of as a son to be prepared for the life he would have to lead. He and Bethia had never hidden their immortality from him, but Kas didn't know he shared it. Bethia wanted to tell him. They had argued about it many times, but she deferred to Methos' judgment while Kaspian was young. Now, though, Kas was a man, and Methos wasn't so sure. Perhaps he did deserve to know the truth._

Methos lifted the sword he held, testing the balance again. His own sword was lost in the ruin of his home. He had borrowed this from Kronos.

Kronos… _Had_ he misjudged the man? Methos knew very little about him; truthfully he had avoided him. He knew Kronos was interested in Bethia, and he had been jealous. He didn't _think_ his distrust of Kronos had been based solely on jealousy. Bethia hadn't returned his interest, and it certainly wasn't the first time another man had been attracted to her. Any man with two eyes and a cock would want her. No…it was something else. Methos trusted his own instincts about people and his instinct told him Kronos was a killer. There was a threatening undercurrent in his habitual sarcasm, a sense of violence simmering beneath a false face. Why the masquerade? Because Kalliste was holy ground, perhaps? Either way, Methos knew Kronos was exactly the kind of man he wanted at his side now.

Kaspian was another matter. He wasn't a killer. He had the skills to do it, but rarely the inclination. Yet Kaspian, not Kronos was at Methos' side today. Kronos, of the three of them the least known in the city, had returned there, to seek the things they would need for the next part of Methos' plan. Kaspian could have gone with him, but wanted to be here, with Methos. He knew that vengeance had been Bethia's way. Methos didn't think Kaspian wanted vengeance for himself.

It wasn't the best attitude to take into battle.

They watched the ship all afternoon. In the east, ash was still rising from the volcano, and there was a constant rumbling from the earth. The wind would change before nightfall, and the whole island would be covered with ashes. But ashes wouldn't be too bad compared with what was coming.

If Kronos' information was accurate, there were three men on board the ship, but all afternoon Methos saw only two. He couldn't figure out what the ship was doing at Kalliste: they couldn't buy or sell slaves here. The nearest slave market was at Melos, a half-day's sailing from Kalliste. If their plan was to take slaves by force, why the murders? The ship seemed to need repair, a sail was badly torn and part of the rigging was damaged, but the best place for repairs was Knossos, on the next island. No…for an immortal ship captain to moor so close to holy ground, he had to be hiding from someone. Or waiting for someone.

At dusk, Methos led Kaspian along the cliff to a fishers wharf. They took a boat from the wharf and rowed out toward the ship, trusting the cover of darkness. Methos was alert for the first whisper of an immortal presence. As soon as he felt it, he stopped rowing and passed the oars to Kaspian.

"Kas, stay in the boat and keep it moving. Circle the ship if you can. I'm going aboard."

Kaspian nodded. "I'll wait, but I'm not staying here all night."

Methos understood. "Wish me luck." He slipped silently over the side into the water. It was cold. He swam to the ship as quietly as he could. It was almost fully dark now; a light aboard the ship guided him. He could hear the waves splashing against the hull, and the sound of Kaspian's rowing. Using Kaspian was a poor decoy, but it was the only one he had. Yasir - that was Kronos' name for the ship's immortal Captain - would unquestionably feel them near. He might not realise there were two of them, or that they had separated. The sound of Kaspian's oars would draw his attention. If luck was with them, it would allow Methos to get aboard in secrecy. After that…

Reaching the hull, Methos found a handhold and began to climb. Above him, all seemed quiet. He reached the deck. He was wet and cold, a little tired from the climb but they were minor discomforts, barely noticed. He drew his sword.

"Who are you?" The shout rang out in the silent night.

Methos turned toward the sound. Light came from the moon, and from the open cabin door…that thin light blocked by the figure of a man. The man Methos had come to kill.

Yasir was tall and dark skinned. He carried a large axe in his hands. That was all Methos had time to see before the immortal stepped out of the light.

"I am Methos," he said. The ancient, ancient challenge.

No further word was needed; they both knew their Game. A sword was a poor weapon against an axe but Methos was skilled. His enemy was stronger then he, but Methos was faster. The darkness was an ally and an enemy both. Methos' real advantage was his anger. It gave him focus and determination. This was for Bethia.

He blocked a blow with his sword and instead of resisting the impact let it knock him down. He rolled beneath the next blow and sprang to his feet at Yasir's back. His sword found flesh and he heard the man grunt with pain. All he could see was the immortal's silhouette. Believing he was wounded, Methos raised his blade again. He began to bring it down, a decapitating blow. The axe slammed into his chest, rending flesh and bone, cutting into a lung. The pain was horrific. Methos' legs buckled and he fell, the sword forgotten.

For the second time in as many days, Methos looked death in the face. He felt the darkness closing in, the agony of his wound fading as death claimed him, and he knew that the next blow would be the end.

And then, in the last seconds before he died, he saw something strike his enemy in the chest. Heard Yasir cry out. Saw him fall to the deck.

That was all he knew.

***

Kaspian waited until he heard the combat begin, then turned the little boat toward the ship. He knew ships; this one wasn't so different from Keftian vessels and it was easy to secure the boat then climb aboard. He had no need for caution; Methos was fighting. Kaspian carried a knife but no sword. His weapon of choice had always been a spear: lance or javelin, he was equally skilled with both. Neither was a usual weapon for an immortal, but they worked for him.

Kaspian knew the rules of immortal combat. He knew he shouldn't interfere. His eyes were well adjusted to the night and he watched the battle tensely. A sound behind him made him whirl and he saw another man. He grabbed the spear from his back, reversed it and struck out with the wooden end. The man went down, collapsing in the cabin doorway, unconscious but alive.

He turned back in time to see Methos fall. As the other immortal raised his axe, Kaspian reacted instinctively. The "rules" were forgotten: he acted to protect his father. He turned the spear in his hand and cast it. Kaspian was a champion, and even in darkness his aim was perfect. Both the axe and the immortal who wielded it fell.

He hurried to Methos' side. Moonlight glinted on the head of the fallen axe.

Kaspian lifted the axe.

He knew the rules. He knew what he had to do. He had killed before, in the sea battle that marked his true passage to manhood. He remembered that battle with horror.

Before he could change his mind, he raised the axe and brought it down, severing the immortal's head with a single stroke.

***

The air crackled with energy. Methos revived with the familiar pain as air seared into his empty lungs. He scrambled up, reaching for his weapon. Lightning streaked across his vision.

"Oh, Lady, no! Kas!"

Lightning illuminated the scene and it was obvious what had happened. Methos watched the quickening take his son. Only when the fire died away did he approach Kaspian.

Kaspian. His son…his friend. Kas was on his hands and knees, his head hanging down. When Methos came near, his head jerked up. Methos couldn't see Kaspian's face, but he read fear in the movement.

"Kas, it's me," he said softly. "Do you know who I am?"

"M-methos."

"Are you alright?" Methos knelt beside him. "Kas?" A first quickening was always disturbing and Kaspian had lived on holy ground since he became immortal. Methos had tried to prepare him for this, but he knew it wasn't possible to be truly prepared for the first. His own first quickening had been…terrifying.

The air around them still felt strange, as if the quickening was still going on. Kaspian hadn't moved. His breathing was laboured.

Methos reached out to him. "Kaspian, don't fight it. What you're feeling is normal, for us."

"Methos…" Kaspian's voice sounded odd, deeper than usual, "…there's another immortal on this ship."

Only when Kaspian said it did Methos become aware of the nagging presence he, too, felt. He stood quickly, looking around the deck. There was no one else. Whoever he could feel must be below decks. The potential danger seemed more immediate - not more important - than his concern for Kaspian. Methos headed toward the cabin light. In the doorway he saw the body of a man, a mortal. Methos ignored him and entered the cabin. He found the lamp and picked it up to light his way, following the presence down into the bowels of the ship.

The lower deck had been divided into sections along the length of the hull. There was no central corridor, just connecting doors. He opened the first, finding more evidence of the ship's normal occupation, but nothing alive. Approaching the second door he smelled blood. He didn't think the smell was coming from above. He frowned to himself. Blood wasn't unusual on a slave ship, but there shouldn't be slaves aboard. He stood still, one hand on the door, listening.

He heard Kaspian moving on the deck above him and the waves breaking on the hull. The movement of the ship was becoming more pronounced, the waves growing higher. He pushed the door open and went on.

The next door stood ajar, and there was light on the other side. Warily, Methos approached the door. He threw it open, holding the lamp high. He stopped. He had found the other immortal.

The man was naked, kneeling on the ground, a bloodstained cloth in his hands. There was no immediately obvious source for the blood…was it his? As he knelt it was hard to tell, but the man looked big: heavyset and muscular. Yet the look on his face as Methos entered the room was pure terror. He saw Methos there, and looked down, his expression resigned.

The sword in Methos' hand felt heavy. He had come here to kill. Looking at the man he had found, death might even be a mercy. Methos couldn't do it.

He wasn't sure how long how stood there, staring at the immortal prisoner. It ended when Kaspian appeared at his shoulder. Methos turned to him, but said nothing, silenced by the look on Kaspian's face.

Kaspian pushed past him into the room. He still held the axe, but clearly had no intention of using it. He stood, looking down at the naked man. He said, "Are you Silas?"

"Who's Silas?" Methos blurted.

"I am," the man said hoarsely, and Methos pitied the sudden hope in his eyes.

Kaspian answered, "He's Kronos' friend. His brother, Kronos said."

_Kronos?_ Methos wasn't prepared for that. What was happening here that Methos didn't know about? How was Kaspian involved?

And there was that word _brother_ again. Methos understood brotherhood among warriors, but the Game made it a rare thing to find among immortals. Immortals could be friends, even lovers, but brotherhood - as Methos understood it - was something more, a far deeper bond. Or did the term mean something different to Kronos?

Methos looked again at the two immortals. If this man Silas mattered to Kronos…well, Methos owed him. "Is there anyone else on board?" he asked quickly.

"No," Kaspian told him.

"Take the lamp and stay here with him. I'll find him some clothing. We'll have to stay aboard until dawn."

As Kaspian accepted the lamp, Methos hurried out of the room. There was still something in Kaspian's voice he didn't like. He had bought himself a little time. Methos returned to the first cabin, where he found a second lamp. Heading for the deck, he slipped on the wet planks by the cabin door. Regaining his balance he looked at the still body of a man partially blocking the doorway. He hadn't paid attention to it before, but he was sure there hadn't been this much blood. He looked down at the body, the man lay face down, and was naked from the waist up. In the flickering lamplight Methos saw a fresh scratch on the man's back. He used his foot to turn the body over. The reason for all the blood became clear quickly: the man's throat had been cut, a single, clean stroke of a knife.

Kaspian?

Methos remembered when Kaspian returned from his first sea voyage. He was mortal then, and very young. Kaspian had been eager to sign aboard the ship, and Methos had encouraged him. But the ship was raided at sea and Kaspian fought his first battle. By all accounts he fought well - Methos had taught him to handle himself - but when he came to Methos Kaspian hadn't been proud. He had been devastated.

If this death was Kaspian's work, the boy had changed far more than Methos realised. Perhaps that was it. His recognition of Silas said a great deal, too. Kaspian was certainly under no obligation to tell Methos who his friends were, but it bothered Methos that Kronos was one of them.

Methos moved further across the deck to the body of Yasir. A spear protruded from his chest; the shaft had passed right through his body. Methos vaguely remembered something hitting Yasir when he had been about to kill him.

Kaspian had interfered in single combat between immortals. Methos would have to talk to him about that…but the talk would have to wait. Methos threw both bodies over the side of the ship, then headed back into the cabin.

As he once again passed the bloodstain on the deck, Methos wondered, when did Kaspian change so much? Why had Methos not noticed?

The night was warm, but Methos shivered.


	4. Chapter 4

#### Santorini, 1995 CE

Beneath Alexa's bare feet, the sand was cool, almost cold. Adam's arm around her shoulders was warm. She leaned into his body, looking out over the sea where the first light of dawn glimmered on the horizon.

"Do you think this was really Atlantis?" she asked him, remembering something the tour guide had said.

Adam laughed softly. "No, Atlantis was further west…according to Plato. Not in the Mediterranean. Some of Plato's descriptions of Atlantis, and a lot of the legends are about this place, though. A beautiful island destroyed by a sudden cataclysm."

"I can't imagine what it must have been like," Alexa sighed.

"No? Let's see what we can do about that." Adam moved behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders, gently turning her around to face the island.

She loved this. Adam had such a talent for bringing these dead places to life. She had told him he ought to write a book but he just laughed and said he was an academic, not a novelist. He pointed to the inside of the island caldera.

"All that water is the caldera of a volcano," Adam said. That much, Alexa already knew. "She's been dormant for thousands of years, but the last eruption was massive. It destroyed most of the island and, according to modern research, changed the climate throughout the Mediterranean Basin and the Middle East." He was holding her from behind, one hand around her waist. With his free hand he gestured upwards into the sky. "Now imagine that instead of all that water, there's a mountain above us. It's very high. From this angle we would be able to see the flattened shape of the peak. The top of the mountain is very steep, bare rock. Lower down the slope is gentler and very green. Over there…" He pointed toward his imaginary mountain, "…stood the city of Kalliste. At the highest point in the city stood a temple and below that, stretching all the way to the shore, were the homes and businesses. They were an advanced civilisation…we've discovered they had running water in their homes, a version of central heating fed by the volcanic springs, a sewer system throughout the city…it must have been a lovely place to live."

He sounded so nostalgic. Alexa turned in his arms to look at him. "How long ago?" she asked.

Adam's eyes were closed as he considered the question. "Three thousand, six hundred years ago. Give or take." He sighed, opening his eyes and looking upward as if he could really see the mountain he described. "It was a wealthy, vibrant community and in the space of a few days, it was obliterated."

Alexa frowned to see the faraway look in his eyes.

"So much death…" he whispered.

"Thousands of years ago, Adam. Why is it so real to you?"

He hesitated for a long time before answering. "I don't know, Alexa." He blinked a couple of times, visibly shaking off his mood. "Maybe it's because they were truly destroyed. Throughout history there have been cities and civilisations lost to war or natural disaster. The Roman Empire. The Aztecs. Cities like Troy and Pompeii. But they live on in history. We know about them: who they were, what they believed, even the foods they ate. The people who lived here on Santorini thirty-six centuries ago are lost. We have a few writings that no-one can read, some ruins and artefacts but nothing that truly tells us who they were. We don't even know what they called themselves, so we name them Minoan, after a king who ruled two hundred years after they were wiped out."

"Maybe," Alexa suggested playfully, "you were one of them in a previous life."

It didn't lighten the mood as she hoped. Adam frowned, his eyes darkening for a moment. Then he smiled, but it seemed forced. "Stranger things have happened," he answered.

***

####  **Athens, 1995 CE**

Alexa had become used to Adam's body beside her in bed. When she woke alone, the bed beside her felt cold. A glance at the clock told her it was 3:20 AM…so where on Earth was Adam?

She sat up in bed and saw a light beneath the bathroom door. She smiled to herself and slid out of the bed. She belted her robe as she walked toward the bathroom, hoping to surprise him.

"If he went after Ryan, what's going to stop him coming after me if I get in his way?"

Alexa stopped at the sound of Adam's voice. There was a silence, then:

"You don't know what you're asking…maybe. _Probably_, but I really don't want to find out."

She had never heard Adam like this. He sounded scared…terrified.

"Yes, I trusted Darius, but it's a theory, man. It's a hell of a long shot…"

Alexa pushed open the bathroom door.

Adam was sitting on the floor next to the bathtub, wearing only boxer shorts. The telephone cord was stretched across the room like a barrier. He looked up as the door swung open. The look on his face she never wanted to see again. "I'll call you back," he snapped, scrambling to his feet. He hung up the phone quickly and turned to her, saying nothing.

"Adam, what's wrong?" she asked nervously.

He came toward her, lifting a hand to touch her face gently. "How much did you hear?"

"Not much. That is…I heard your voice…" She was lying. She didn't even know why she was lying.

Adam kissed her, stroking her hair. "A friend of mine is in trouble. I didn't get all the details. I'm going to have to call back."

"What friend? What kind of trouble? Adam…"

He held her face between his hands, gently. He looked stricken. "I can't tell you. Sweetheart, I'm sorry, but I can't."

"But…"

"Please!" He was still holding her, his lips moving over her forehead, her eyes. "Alexa, please go back to sleep. This is something I need to deal with on my own."

"But…"

"Please, my love. I need to finish that call."

It wasn't enough. Why was he so frightened? Reluctantly, Alexa nodded. "I'll go back to bed, but I won't be sleeping. I'll wait for you.

Adam nodded. "Okay." He walked with her to the door. "I won't be too long."

The bathroom door closed behind her and she heard the _click_ of the lock. Alexa drew her robe tightly around her, feeling cold suddenly. Slowly, she walked back to the empty bed.

***

#### **Kalliste, 1628 **BCE

Methos turned the bronze dagger over in his hands. The sharp blade sliced into his skin; he watched the blood flow and fall, watched his skin heal. He sheathed the dagger in his boot. "You _want_ a battle."

"Of course I do!" Kronos declared. "Don't _you_? Methos, I know what you are. You can fool these mortals, but not me."

A smile played at the corners of Methos' mouth. He turned back to Kronos. "Why don't you tell me what I am."

Kronos' eyes narrowed. "The Keftians worship you, _General_. The man who single-handedly saved them from disaster two generations ago! The Akhaiains hear the same stories and they fear you. You have power here, Methos. And you _let_ them kill her!"

There was just enough truth in that to hurt. With an angry cry, Methos launched himself at Kronos. His hands locked around Kronos' throat and they crashed to the ground together. Kronos struggled and they rolled over and over in the dust. Methos squeezed tighter. He heard Kaspian shouting his name. He felt Kronos' strength begin to fade and released him, thinking he had made his point. Kronos started to laugh. Methos struck him across the mouth. Kronos struck back.

They came to their feet, still trading blows, but there was a different character to the combat, now. Neither man was trying to hurt the other. They were testing each other, looking for strength and weakness. Methos knew instinctively he couldn't allow Kronos to best him, even in mock-combat. The next time Kronos struck him, he allowed the blow to knock him down, because that freed him to reach for the dagger. As he rolled and sprang up, the dagger was in his hand. He lunged, twisting the blade as it cut into flesh.

Kronos didn't even cry out. His hands closed around Methos' wrist, slowly pulling him, and the dagger, from his body. Methos struggled to retain his hold on the hilt as Kronos forced the point of the dagger toward Methos' chest. Methos shifted to get some leverage and brought his knee up, hard, into Kronos' groin. That did it. Kronos shouted with pain, releasing Methos' wrist. Methos kicked out again and Kronos fell.

Methos bent down and grasped Kronos by his hair. He jerked his head back and pressed the bronze blade against Kronos' throat, drawing blood. "You're lucky this is holy ground. Get up."

Kronos was grinning as he got to his feet.

Methos watched him warily. "Listen to me. I have no interest in chaos. I want _revenge_. I want terror. We could ride into the city today and kill a lot of people. The _wrong_ people."

Kaspian's eyes were narrow. "You have a plan, Methos?"

Methos pointed to the still-smoking volcano. "She's going to erupt soon. But not today. And there's another reason to wait." He looked at Kaspian. "You've forgotten what day it is, Kas."

Kaspian shook his head. "What day?"

"Tomorrow," Methos announced to them both, "is the Day of the Dead. The people will gather at the temple for their loved ones and the ceremony begins at noon. _Outside_ the temple."

Kaspian laughed, and it was an ugly sound. "You want the priestess."

"I do."

"Then we wait," Kronos agreed. He looked at Methos and their eyes met. His look was a challenge and Methos met it, idly turning the dagger in his hands as they stared at each other, a silent battle of wills. Finally, Kronos laughed, breaking the tension between them. Methos nodded, still wary. Something had been communicated between them…he just wasn't sure what it was, yet.

Silas had been silent throughout the exchange. Indeed, he had said very little since they left the ship. He stood and walked away from the three of them, gazing up at the volcano. The wind was changing, and would soon send the ever-growing plume of ash in their direction.

Methos watched him for a few moments, then moved to his side. "Everything okay?"

Silas didn't answer.

"Whatever happened on Yasir's ship…it's over. He's gone." The words were a shot in the dark. Methos didn't know anything about Silas, only that whatever Yasir did to him had frightened Silas…and in truth frightened Methos, too.

There was still no answer.

"You survived, Silas."

"Survived," Silas repeated. "I want to fight."

"You'll fight. Tomorrow you'll get all the fight you want." He clapped a hand on the man's shoulder, meeting his eyes for a moment. "Tomorrow," he said again and was rewarded with a light of anticipation in Silas' eyes.

***

"Is this what you had in mind?"

Methos smiled. "Oh, yes. I'm impressed, Kronos." He hadn't seen a weapon like that axe since the last war. He ran his thumb along the edge and passed the axe to Kronos, exchanging it for the sword. It was damaged in his fight with Yasir, but the repairs looked good. He swept the sword through the air a few times, testing the balance and strength of the blade.

"It'll hold," Kronos told him.

"It will need to," Methos answered.

Kronos grabbed his arm as Methos pushed the sword through his belt. "Just remember you owe me."

Methos stared at him, feeling something in that gesture. "If we live through tomorrow, Kronos, I'll owe you whatever you ask."

"Yes. You will."

Methos looked toward the volcano. Ash covered everything: his hair and clothing, the axe in Kronos' hands, the ground around them and the horses. It was hard to see through the eerie rain, but he thought the cloud had stopped rising. Certainly the fall of ash seemed less. Kalliste was buried in the stuff; a grey world that matched Methos' mood. But this was only the beginning. If it worried _him_, the knew the effect on the Keftians would be so much greater. Their Lady was angry; they would be afraid. It would serve Methos' purpose well.

Was it Bethia's anger he felt? For a brief moment, gazing up at the volcano summit through a rain of ashes, he wondered at himself, at what he was planning to do with these three men. Vengeance was _her_ way, not his. He shook his head. It didn't matter.

Methos remembered Teryssa's spectre, her vision of him as Death. Today, at noon, he would make her nightmare come true.

***

_"Bethia, have you ever been back there?" Methos asked her. He ran the sharpening stone slowly down the blade of his sword._

_Her eyes became hard. "Do you know what they did to me?" She held a knife in her hands, turning it over and over. _

_Methos nodded gravely. "I know. Perhaps not all of it, but I saw how you died."_

_"Then why ask the question?"_

_"Because you brought it up." He set the sword aside to concentrate his attention on her. "Bethie, I have my share of bad memories. I thought you wanted to talk about this. If you don't, then don't."_

_"I went back," she said, raising her chin defiantly. "As soon as I had the chance."_

_"And?"_

_"And I found them." The knife she held slipped, cutting into her palm. Bethia didn't seem to notice._

_Methos did. He reached across and took the knife from her hand. He brushed the healing wound with his fingertips. "An eye for an eye, is that it?"_

_"When I was little, they taught me vengeance belongs to God. I gave God his chance. What he left behind…that was mine."_

***

The horses were scared. Methos had trouble controlling the gelding he rode as he led them into the city. The streets were quiet. There had been some attempt to sweep away the ashes and their horses' hooves echoed off the walls.

The Day of the Dead was one of the major events in the Keftian year. Every adult Keftian would visit the temple at some point today, and most would gather for the noon ceremony. Only the Outsiders might stay away, though Methos suspected the wise Outsiders were already off the island.

He led them to his villa first…what was left of it. The building was a burned-out shell. Methos told them to wait and walked alone through the open gateway. Grey ash covered the burned timbers of his former home. He saw no sign of Bethia's body, or the man he had killed. He stepped over a fallen beam to the stairway and climbed up to the bedroom he shared with Bethia. There was only one thing he wanted from the villa. The rest was the corpse of a life he was leaving forever.

The bedroom was black with soot. The floor was unstable and he moved gingerly across the beams. He found Bethia's chest. The outside of the chest was blackened but it was intact, and when he lifted the lid the contents were almost untouched by the fire. He found her bow but left it where it lay. He was looking for her mask. She had taken the mask from an immortal she killed; a piece of stiffened black leather moulded to the head, which covered the upper half of the wearer's face, leaving only the mouth and chin visible. He remembered her wearing the mask when they fought together in the last war. He remembered the fear she inspired: masked, mounted on a horse with a weapon in each hand, she had been a demon to their enemies…beautiful to him.

Methos pushed his hair back from his face and put the mask on.

Outside the ruined villa, Methos mounted his horse and signalled to Kronos. The plan of attack was Methos' but they had agreed Kronos would lead them into the plaza. Control of the horses was going to be a challenge and Methos remembered Kronos riding to his rescue during the earthquake; no other horseman he knew could have such complete control over his horse.

Kronos led them through the deserted streets until they were near their destination: the temple plaza. As they neared the plaza Methos held back, watching Kronos. His instincts about the man had been correct.

There were a few people in the approach to the plaza: those who were late for the ceremony, or perhaps people who could not fit into the main square. Kronos slowed his horse, turning in the saddle to look at the others. He was smiling when he met Methos' eyes, blue eyes glittering. Then he wheeled his horse around and rode full-tilt into the crowd ahead, shouting a war cry. He killed as he rode, his sword flashing in the noon sun as he raised it.

Silas and Kaspian followed Kronos' lead. Silas carried a heavy studded mace, a weapon fitted to his size and obvious strength. The weapon was heavy, but Silas wielded it as if it weighed nothing, smashing through the people around him. Kaspian carried the war axe Kronos had found for him. It was a big, double-headed axe, not a weapon Kaspian had trained with much. Yet he handled it with great skill. He struck on both sides of his horse, anyone within reach of his weapon. The axe maimed more often than it killed, but that was good. The cries of pain rang in Methos' ears. Methos rode at the rear. His sword was in his hand, but he had no need to kill. Not yet.

Kronos slowed his horse, waiting for them to catch up with him. Methos looked ahead to the temple plaza. It was a perfect corral. There were only two exits: into the temple itself, and today the bronze gates were closed, and the archway where the four immortal horsemen were gathered. His eyes searched the area near the temple gates and he saw Teryssa and her attendants. He nodded to Kronos.

Kronos kicked his horse into motion and the real killing began.

Panic heralded their arrival in the plaza. They split up as they rode into the square. Silas rode with Kronos through the centre; Kaspian and Methos each took one side. One man, braver than many, tried to grasp the reins of Silas' horse. He died instantly under Silas' mace, blood and brains spattering the horse's neck. Methos heard Silas laugh and then he raised his sword, charging into the crowd.

It was too easy. Panic spread through the crowd. Screams filled the air around them. Blood stained Methos' sword. He drove his horse through the people, focussed single-mindedly on the temple gate. Men and women fell beneath his sword and beneath his horse.

Teryssa knelt, weeping, beside the body of one of her priestesses. The ceremonial gown was dusty and torn; her headdress was gone and her hair loose about her face. The gown was one Methos had seen many times before: a many-layered skirt with a tightly-laced bodice that left her breasts bare. There were serpents painted on her forearms, twining about her wrists.

Teryssa screamed as he bore down on her. There was no recognition in her eyes. One of the priestesses attending her tried to block his way. Methos cut her down, a single sword stroke across her throat. Her eyes met his as he struck. Distantly, he recognised her, but though he must have known her name, he couldn't remember it in that moment. He sheathed the bloodied sword, reached down and grasped the front of Teryssa's ceremonial gown. He dragged her struggling body up to his horse, laying her across the horse's shoulders in front of him. She screamed for help but no one heard her over the din.

Methos turned his horse, looking for Kronos. From the centre of the plaza, Kronos raised his sword in salute. Beside him, Silas rode down on a woman, one of the last left standing in the plaza. She was blocking his way to someone else; Methos couldn't see who it was. Silas raised his mace and seemed about to strike, then Methos saw him lean down and grab the woman, dragging her up to his horse as Methos had taken the priestess. Silas handled the struggling woman with practiced ease.

"Time to go!" Methos shouted to Kronos. Kronos whirled his horse, leading them out of the plaza.

Following the plan, they rode along the coast to where the ship was anchored off-shore. Teryssa had stopped struggling by the time Methos reined his horse in at the water's edge. He lifted her down with some care; for the time being he wanted her in one piece and the priestess was, after all, quite old.

"Why not just kill her?" Kaspian called to him, bringing his horse alongside Methos.

"I want her alive," Methos told him.

Teryssa looked up at him defiantly. "Who are you? _What_ are you?"

Methos shoved her toward Kaspian. "Take her to the ship."

If Teryssa recognised Kaspian, she gave no sign of it. Methos watched her struggle with him, trying to see Kas through her eyes. Fresh from battle, his hair and clothing covered with blood, the axe still in one hand, he didn't look much like himself.

Silas joined Kaspian in the boat, dragging his prisoner with him. Teryssa wasn't struggling now, but the other woman was. She was rocking the boat. Kaspian shouted something Methos didn't hear and Silas hit the woman, hard. That ended the struggle. Kaspian pushed the boat out to sea and grabbed an oar.

It left Methos alone on the shore with Kronos. "We'll have to leave the horses," he said casually.

"We can steal more."

Methos looked at Kronos. The immortal's eyes were bright with excitement. There was blood spattered across his face and clothing. He was breathing hard. He spread his arms wide, laughing exuberantly. Methos pushed back his mask.

Kronos met his eyes. Methos caught his breath. He felt the same thing Kronos felt: _alive!_ More alive than he felt even in Bethia's arms. They both moved in the same instant, reaching for each other. Methos tore at Kronos' clothing, leather and cloth ripping beneath his hands, even as Kronos ripped the shirt from his back. Their coupling was rough, frenzied. When it was over, Methos lay beneath him, suddenly grateful for the warmth of another body, for the illusion, if only for a moment, of something that could stop the pain. It was then he opened his eyes, looking up at the volcano towering above them.

"Time to leave," Methos said firmly.

"Afraid they're going to come after us?" Kronos sneered.

Methos stood, fastening what was left of his clothing. "_They_ are nothing to fear, Kronos." He looked up at the mountain. "_That_ is. I've been close to an eruption before. Immortal or not, if we're still here in a few hours, we'll be dead."

They scattered the horses and headed out to the ship.

A quick fuck meant nothing. Death, in battle or in single combat had always aroused Methos and he had sent many to their goddess this day. Kronos and he were the same, at least in that one way. But it was a mistake to show Kronos anything he might interpret as weakness and letting Kronos fuck him just might fall into that category. A worry for later.

Methos reached the deck and pulled the mask back into place. He looked for the priestess first and found her unconscious, left in a heap on the deck. He picked up a rope, tossed it over his shoulder and grasped the back of her gown, dragging her to the mast. Kronos followed him and took the rope, helping Methos tie the unconscious woman to the mast of their ship.

Kronos lifted Teryssa's white hair away from her face, revealing the bruise on her temple. "An interesting choice of paramour," he commented.

Methos finished fastening the rope. "I'm not going to fuck her," he said.

"Then why bring her here?"

"Vengeance," he answered shortly.

A thunderous roar split the air. Methos whirled to face the mountain. "We've stayed too long. Weigh anchor, Kronos. I hope you know how to sail." He shouted for Kaspian and began to raise the sail.


	5. Chapter 5

#### The Mediterranean Sea

As the sun rose over the Mediterranean, Methos stood on the deck of the ship, gazing at what was left of Kalliste. The island was on the far horizon. The smoke and ash rose above the island in a great cloud that spread far over the sea. He could not see the island clearly but it looked as if most of the mountain was gone. Sunk beneath the sea. It had been a wild night on the sea; they were far enough from Kalliste to escape the worst of the storm but the volcano's explosion reached even here in the high waves, thunder and fire. And it wasn't over yet.

Surely even Kronos would be humbled by this.

Methos smiled to himself as Kronos emerged from below decks. Maybe not. He pushed his wet hair back from his face and fixed Bethia's mask in place. He drew the knife from his boot and crossed to his prisoner. Kronos watched him silently.

The priestess slumped against the mast. Her white hair was wet and clung to her skull and shoulders. Her flesh was pale and cold, the ceremonial gown no protection from the elements. She looked up at Methos' approach, her eyes on the knife in his hand. "What are you?" she asked. Her voice was weak.

"You know me, priestess," Methos told her. He watched the dawning recognition in her eyes. The day before she had not seen past his mask but they had known each other too long for disguise to work.

Recognition gave way to fear. "Methos? But…but…you…"

Methos laughed. "Forgive me, priestess. I don't think I've seen you speechless before."

"Why? You were our protector."

He seized her by her hair, turning her head and forcing her to look back in the direction of Kalliste. "_Was_ I? Then this is fitting, isn't it? Look at your island, priestess. _Look at it_!"

Teryssa sobbed with pain as she obeyed him, her eyes taking in the wreckage of the island.

Methos did not ease his grip. "Your people, _priestess_, murdered my woman. Burned my home. Now tell me what protection I owed them."

Teryssa said nothing. Her eyes were closed, tears gathering beneath her lashes. Methos let go of her hair. He brushed a few strands of hair back from her face, a gentle touch. Her eyes opened and she looked at him hopefully.

Methos raised the mask he wore. "Led a sheltered life, haven't you?" He stroked her tangled hair down to her shoulder then ran his hand over her exposed breast. He smiled as she shrank away from his touch. He had no intention of taking her but it suited him to let her think otherwise. There was a certain thrill in touching her; she was a priestess. Forbidden fruit.

"There is nothing you can do to me, Methos."

"Oh, you are wrong. There is a great deal more I can do." He lifted the knife before her eyes. "You destroyed my life, priestess. How should I repay you for that?"

"I? I did nothing!"

He held the knife at her throat, leaning close enough to kiss her. "Exactly so. The one person on Kalliste who could have sent the mob home and you did _nothing_. We needed _your_ protection that night!"

"I tried to warn you!"

"You didn't even summon me. I came to the temple on my own."

An edge of the old defiance crept back into Teryssa's voice. "Would you have me protect a murderer?" she demanded.

Methos drew back and struck her hard across her face. "Bethia was no murderer!"

"And you?" she whispered.

"Until yesterday, priestess, I hadn't killed in two hundred years, except in your wars. You didn't care who was guilty. You sacrificed me and mine to the mob…for what? You _know_ you could have saved her, don't you? _Don't you?_"

She nodded reluctantly.

"Now, I want you to understand what you've done." Methos pointed to what was left of Kalliste. "You know about my kind, Teryssa. So believe this: everyone on Kalliste is dead, because my Bethie was killed on holy ground. _You_ started the destruction, priestess. Yesterday, I just finished the job."

Methos waited long enough to be sure she understood, then he walked away, leaving her there.

Kronos stopped him as he reached the cabin. "Is that true?"

"What?"

"That her death caused the eruption."

"Her quickening," Methos corrected. He debated for a moment. He wasn't certain the quickening had caused the volcano to wake. He knew he had touched something during the quickening and that something was enough to make him realise a major eruption was coming. But had the quickening caused it, or simply made him aware of it? Methos had no idea. Kronos didn't need to know that, he decided.

So he simply met Kronos' eyes calmly. "There's a reason we don't kill each other on holy ground, Kronos. Did you not know that?"

"I know the rules. No one I've ever met knew the reason."

"And how many of the immortals you've met lived beyond the meeting?" Methos asked.

"You did."

Yes, but we met on holy ground. Methos simply smiled, letting that be his reply.

"You have plans for her?" Kronos asked.

"You want her?"

Kronos shrugged. "A woman's a woman. But Silas' choice appeals to me more. He'll share. I just want to know how long you plan to leave her alive."

"I haven't decided yet." Methos moved past Kronos and headed below.

***

There was a woman crying somewhere on the deck. At first, Methos assumed it was Teryssa, but she was silent. He followed the sound. The only other woman on the ship was the one Silas took from Kalliste. In the darkness it took him some time to reach her but eventually he found the woman. She was crouching near the bow. As closely as Methos could tell in the dark, she was naked. She heard him coming and tried to hide herself from him. Then she looked up and as the moonlight struck them both he saw she recognised him.

Methos offered her his hand. "Are you hurt?" he asked her.

She took his hand nervously and he helped her to her feet. "Are you hurt?" he repeated - not gently.

"I…I…"

"Turn around," he ordered.

She obeyed, trying unsuccessfully to cover her nakedness with her hands. Methos saw minor cuts and bruises on her body, but no evidence of serious injury. "You seem unharmed," he said curtly.

"Help me," she whispered. Her eyes pleaded with him. It was pitiful. Methos wondered at himself. Only a few days before, he would have killed Silas for this. A few days before, he wouldn't have trusted Kronos at his side, either.

He looked down at the woman. "This isn't Kalliste. The only person who can help you is you. If you do as you're told, you won't be hurt…much. Get used to it, girl."

What _did_ Silas plan for the woman? On one level the answer was obvious. If he wanted a slave he was welcome to her, but this one wasn't born to slavery. She was Keftian. If Silas wanted to keep her he would need to break her in more gently.

Methos grasped her arm and headed below decks, dragging her with him. He met Kronos on the way down. For a long moment the two men just looked at each other. Methos laid his free hand on his sword. He could not afford to let Kronos get the better of him again.

"I was looking for you," Kronos said.

"You've found me."

"We've been discussing where we should go. We can't just drift in the Mediterranean forever. Did your plan include a destination?"

"It's a bit late to be asking me, isn't it?" Methos shoved the woman ahead of him. "No, my plan ended with getting off Kalliste before the eruption." He found a blanket in the first hold and threw it to the woman. "Cover yourself," he ordered. "If Silas is done with you, find yourself a place to sleep in the hold. Don't let me find you on deck again."

The look she gave him was one of confusion, but she obeyed him, wrapping the blanket around herself. She clutched the blanket between her breasts. "Is there water?" she asked softly.

"Go and ask your master." He turned his back on her deliberately, picking up his conversation with Kronos. "This ship won't get us far. We need supplies and a new sail at the very least."

"Rhodos?" he suggested.

Methos shook his head. "Keftiu is closer."

"You want to dock at Keftiu? After what we just did. Are you crazy?"

"Knossos is the best place to get supplies and I don't think anyone will connect this ship with what happened on Kalliste. If anyone escaped, Kronos, their stories won't be very coherent." He shrugged. "I want to drop off our passenger at Keftiu, but if you have a better idea, I won't insist."

"The old woman. Why not just kill her?"

Methos smiled maliciously. "She wants death."

"But if we dock at Keftiu…"

"You're forgetting who I am, Kronos. There's very little risk. Kaspian and I are known and respected on Keftiu. We'll go ashore, trade for supplies and leave. Then we can go anywhere you like."

"And if there's trouble?" Kronos insisted.

"I'll deal with it," Methos answered shortly.

***

#### Knossos

Methos was haggling over the price of some travellers' loaves when he heard the scream behind him. He whirled around, his sword in his hand instantly. Near another trader's stall, two men fought, rolling in the dust. The scream had come from a woman behind the stall. One of the men fighting was Kaspian.

Methos abandoned his bargaining and leapt into the fray. Kaspian had a knife in his hand. Methos grabbed Kaspian's wrist and dragged him back. It wasn't easy: Kaspian was stronger than he. He tried to force the younger man to face him and Kaspian struck out. The knife sliced into Methos' thigh.

"Kaspian!" Methos hooked an arm around Kaspian's neck. He tightened the choke-hold, letting Kaspian know he was willing to kill him if necessary. Thankfully it was not: Kaspian sheathed the knife, relaxing in Methos' arms. "Is this how you keep a low profile?" Methos hissed in his ear. He released Kaspian and waited for him to scramble up. "What's going on here?" he demanded.

Kaspian growled, "He insulted me." His eyes slid to the man he had attacked.

Methos held on to Kaspian's arm, restraining him. "He insulted you? When did that become cause for _this_?" He saw Kaspian begin to reach for his knife again. "Don't even think about it," Methos warned.

When he met Kaspian's eyes, Methos saw something there he had never seen before. He almost recoiled from that look, so alien did it seem from the boy he had raised. Then Kaspian's hand fell away from the knife-hilt. He did not speak.

Methos turned to the stallholder, helping him up. "I apologise for my son's temper, sir. Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." The man brushed dust from his clothes with his hands. "Thank you."

Methos turned away without another word. He returned to the bread vendor, Kaspian a dark presence at his shoulder. The man glanced at Kaspian and gave them the bread for the price Methos suggested. He appeared eager to be rid of them. That was the last of the supplies they needed, so Methos led them back toward the docks. Kaspian walked beside him, not speaking.

Methos did not mention the incident, but it troubled him. Public brawling was so far from Kaspian's character that in itself would have worried Methos, but there was more. Kaspian tried to kill that man. Over what? An insult? Kaspian had always been a little volatile, but he had never gone this far before. At least…not to Methos' knowledge.

They reached the ship and he was relieved to find Kronos and Silas waiting for them. A new sail lay on the deck and new ropes and other essential supplies were being loaded as they reached the dock. Methos climbed up the gangplank, relieved to be back aboard.

Kronos was frowning at him as he reached the deck. "Did something go wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing important," Methos answered firmly. He was laden down with supplies: bread, meat, ale and wine; he found a clear space on the deck and set everything down. "Do we have water?" he asked, looking at Silas.

Silas nodded. "Enough for a few weeks."

"Then I suggest we prepare to leave. The tide will turn soon." He turned to Kaspian. "Kas, what happened out there? It's not like you to lose control like that."

Kaspian stared at him through narrowed eyes. "How would _you_ know?" he demanded. He stalked away, not waiting for an answer.

Methos stared after him, baffled. He felt the heat of Kronos' body at his back.

"Something wrong?" Kronos asked again.

"Kas got into a brawl. No harm done."

"Then why are you going after him?"

"I'm not," Methos lied. He moved away from Kronos and began preparing the ship for departure.

Three miles from the coast of Keftiu, with the island still within easy sight of the ship, Methos went below and brought Teryssa up to the deck. He dragged her to the stern, pointing to the island.

"Kronos thinks I should kill you," he told her. "But I remember what you told me the night Bethia died. You saw me as Death, didn't you?"

Teryssa did not answer. She hadn't spoken to him since the night they took her from Kalliste. Methos didn't care.

Methos lifted her in his arms. "So, I place your fate in your hands, priestess. If you reach the shore, remember to tell them Death was merciful."

It was only then Teryssa realised what he intended to do. She clung to him, struggling as he approached the ship's rail. "Methos, no! No!"

Still holding her, he smiled gently, touching her cheek with his fingers. He waited for her to relax in his arms, hope filling her eyes. Then he let go, dropping her over the side of the ship.

She screamed.

As Methos turned away, he saw Kronos watching him. "I knew you were clever, Methos, but I didn't see that coming."

"You approve?" Methos asked indifferently. It was over. Done.

"I thought we were alike, my brother. Now I know it."


	6. Chapter 6

Foreplay is a strange thing. Methos could not suppress a small wince as the dagger sliced into his forearm. Blood welled from the cut and he held the blade-edge in the wound, preventing it from healing.

Kronos watched the blood fall, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. The hold was lit by a single tallow candle. They didn't have the supplies for anything more. Methos waited, observing the other man. He heard his breathing deepen, saw him moisten his lips and knew he had him.

"Your point?" Kronos whispered.

Methos opened the hand that gripped the dagger, only its weight holding it in his flesh. Kronos took the dagger. As Methos felt the wound begin to close, Kronos ran the bloodied blade across his lips. It was perverse…and exactly the reaction Methos wanted. Nothing that had any place in his former life, nothing that could remind him of who he was yesterday. Methos, General of Kalliste was gone. He reached for Kronos.

They came together as roughly as the first time. Methos tasted his own blood in Kronos' mouth and he bit down, tearing flesh and tasting more blood. His hands fumbled at Kronos' belt. Kronos laughed, one of his hands grasping Methos' hair, dragging him down to the rough-timbered floor. Splinters cut into his skin but the pain was exciting. Methos' hands roamed Kronos' body, fingers digging into muscles, pulling him close. He groped between Kronos' legs, thrusting fingers into his body. Kronos cried out above him. His hands pinned Methos down and he knelt above him. Methos gritted his teeth, ready for the pain.

Kronos' cock rammed into him. In the same moment, Kronos reached for the blade, cutting into Methos' exposed belly. Had he been mortal, it would have been a death wound. Methos cried out, and in that moment he climaxed, his semen mixing with his blood on both of their bodies. He lay still, fighting to stay conscious as his body healed. Kronos was still inside him, thrusting hard.

An immortal presence - and not Kronos - pressed at the edges of Methos' awareness and he turned his head, seeking the source. In the darkness of the hold he could see very little. Only when Kaspian drew a blade did the movement catch his eye and Methos recognised his son.

By then, it was too late. For a moment Methos fought to get free. Kronos' strength held him down. As Kronos thrust deeper inside him, Methos forgot why he was fighting and surrendered to the pleasure-in-pain.

***

"Kaspian!"

Methos followed after him. He hadn't stopped for clothing. Kaspian climbed the ladder up to the deck without looking back once.

"Kas, wait!" Methos scrambled after him.

As Methos gained the deck, Kaspian's fist caught him just below his ribs. It was a powerful blow and Methos was taken completely off-guard. It sent him flying. He recovered quickly, rolling to his feet. He cast around for a weapon and grabbed the only thing near: a wooden staff. He faced Kaspian, the staff held firmly in his hands. Kaspian held his double-headed axe.

What Methos saw behind Kaspian's eyes in that moment was alien. There was so much anger in him! Kas always had a volatile temper but this was something more. Something…older. And in that moment he began to understand the change in the boy he had raised.

"Kas?"

"I don't know you any more," Kaspian snarled.

_I could say the same to you, son._ Methos tried reason. "Kas, I know what you saw below was…"

"Look at yourself, _General_!" The words were full of disgust.

Methos didn't need to look. He knew there was still dried blood covering his belly, though the wound from which it came was gone. He knew semen still crusted his ass and thighs. He got the point. "Do I get a chance to explain, Kas, or do you just want to hit me some more?" He eyed the axe in Kaspian's hand warily: no immortal should threaten a challenge unless it was meant.

Kaspian dropped to a fighting crouch, bringing the axe to bear. It seemed like an answer to Methos' question. Did he have to fight his own son to the death? _Could_ he kill Kaspian? Perhaps a more important question - could this ship withstand another quickening on the deck?

Methos moved his staff to a defensive position. He did not speak: he wanted Kaspian to make the first move here, whatever that was. He met Kaspian's eyes and saw only that ancient anger.

The first blow sliced toward Methos' neck. He ducked beneath it and struck out toward Kaspian's legs with the staff. Kaspian leapt over the staff. It was enough to convince Methos Kaspian was serious. Deadly serious. He backed off, seeking safer ground. Kaspian swung for him again and Methos blocked the blow with his staff.

Kaspian was out of control. He swung he axe wildly, driven by rage. Methos evaded each blow, but after the first, did not return, didn't attack. The strategy seemed to anger Kaspian further, which would have been a good thing if Methos wanted him dead.

Kaspian lunged for Methos. Methos jumped back, evading again, but he slipped on the wet deck. He went down to one knee, throwing the staff up to block the axe coming for his head. The axe-blade broke the staff in two. A splinter flew into Methos' cheek near his eye and he cried out. Kaspian brought the axe down again, but this time drove it into the deck between them, where it stayed. He grabbed Methos by his throat, lifting him and slamming his body against the mast.

It forced most of the breath from Methos' body. Methos clawed at Kaspian's hand and wrist but his grip was like iron. Methos couldn't breathe. Kaspian was stronger than Methos, he always had been. Kaspian lifted Methos higher and Methos felt his feet leave the ground. His vision was going grey.

"Kas…" he pleaded.

"This is what you like, isn't it? Pain? Death?" Kaspian drew a knife. Methos had time to see the blade flash in the setting sun and Kaspian plunged the knife into his heart.

Methos revived at the foot of the mast. Kronos was sitting beside him. Kronos' fingers caressed the still-bloody blade of Kaspian's knife. The sight chilled Methos to the bone.

Kronos smiled. "Welcome back."

Methos turned onto his side, coughing blood out of his lungs. "Kaspian?" he croaked.

"He's below."

"Did you save me…again?"

"No. He didn't want your head." Kronos held the bloody knife near Methos' lips. Methos took the knife from his hand, tasting the blood because Kronos wanted him to do it. He met Kronos' eyes over the blade.

He wondered which of them was the most crazy.

***

The coast of Egypt was visible on the horizon as dawn broke over the Mediterranean. Methos stood on the deck of the ship, watching the water turn from black to deepest blue as the stars faded from sight.

_Methos knew Kaspian could feel him near, but the boy gave no sign of it. He kept his back to Methos as he worked. The heat of the forge gave him a glowing aura and sent rivulets of sweat down his back. Methos decided not to disturb him further and waited in the doorway, saying nothing. He had watched Kas at work many times. He had a real talent with metals: he was a perfectionist and often rejected pieces that looked good to Methos' untrained eye. Kas' jewellery was in great demand and the weapons he made were both sturdy and beautiful. _

_"Whatever you want," Kaspian snarled, "say it and get out. You are spoiling my concentration."_

_Methos took a few steps into the room. "Would it really have made such a difference if we had told you?"_

_Kaspian abandoned what he was doing and spun around to confront Methos. "Yes!" he said savagely._

_So he was still angry. Methos didn't understand it. A first death was always traumatic, but Kaspian's anger ran deeper than that. Methos spread his hands. "Can you explain that to me?"_

_"I would have been more careful."_

_That made no sense. "Kas, you took a stupid risk and got yourself killed. How would knowing you couldn't die have made you more careful?"_

_"I'm not talking about the fall! It was an accident. I meant…" Kas turned away again, picking up the piece he had been working on. "What do you think of this?"_

_Methos took the unfinished piece and examined it. It was a torque, made in a Northern style Kaspian had never seen: Methos had described it and sketched it for him. Worked in silver with multiple strands braided together, there were spaces where jewels would be set. "It's…beautiful," Methos answered sincerely. "You've caught the style, but the jewels will give it a Keftian look, too. What stones were you going to use?"_

_"Lapis."_

_"That will look perfect with the silver." He handed the torque back to Kas. "It's a masterwork."_

_"It was for Leandra."_

_With the girl's name, light dawned at last. "I hadn't realised it was that serious." Methos should have realised. She was the one Kas worked so hard to impress in the summer Games. He knew they'd been spending time together since. He hadn't been paying enough attention, it seemed._

_"Yes, well, it can't be now, can it?"_

_"Becoming immortal makes a difference?" _

_"**Knowing** I am does. You should have told me, Methos."_

_There was so much pain here, but Methos was baffled by it. "I don't understand."_

_"No, you don't. Do you even remember what it's like to be human?"_

_An angry retort was on the edge of Methos' tongue but he looked at the torque again and knew the words came from pain. He answered as honestly as he could. "No, I don't remember my mortal life. Not clearly. That doesn't mean I don't know humanity. I have feelings, Kas, and passions, and too damned many losses in my past. But I'm obviously missing something here."_

_"We were going to tell you after the moon festival. Leandra already spoke to her mother. She said it doesn't matter that I'm an Outsider because our children won't be."_

_Children. Now Methos understood. He couldn't ask the next question. He didn't really need to. Whether Leandra rejected Kas for his immortality, or Kas felt he could no longer pursue her because of it, the result was the same. He bowed his head, acknowledging his guilt. Kas was right; Methos should have told him. Would have, if he foresaw this outcome. _

_His eyes fell on the torque again and he lifted it. "This will be valuable when it's finished. You could still give it to her, Kas."_

_"Why?"_

_For the same reason you're still making it, son. "If you love her, Kaspian, you already know why. If you don't…then I'm still missing something."_

_For the first time, he saw a smile touch Kas' lips. "Maybe I'm crazy. She's half my age."_

_Methos smiled back. "I'm four or five times Bethie's age. Age isn't important."_

***

Methos drew his cloak more closely around him. Ever since Bethia's death, there was something different about Kas. Was it _because_ she died? Methos was aware that _he_ had changed since that night of blood and fire. Or, changed _back_, he amended, unable to lie to himself. Kalliste had been a refuge from his true nature as much as from the deadly Game of immortal existence. He was ready to take his place in the Game again.

But Kaspian…the young man whose hands coaxed such beauty from metal and stone, the young man who shed tears the first time he was forced to take a life…that couldn't be the same man who rode with him into the temple plaza, killing and maiming. It couldn't be the same man who a week ago had been ready to commit murder in a public place over an imagined insult, or who knifed Methos in the heart because he was annoyed. What had changed him so much that night? Why?

Oh, Bethie, I wish you were here. I need your cool head.

He was _really_ in trouble if he was thinking of Bethia as the cool one! She was the one who usually acted impulsively. She was the one who couldn't settle down.

He missed her.

He felt the approach of an immortal behind him. "Kronos," he said. A guess.

"I woke alone," came the reply. Yes, that was Kronos.

Methos stayed at the rail, watching the horizon. "If you don't get over the idea that you own me, Kronos, that's going to happen a lot."

Kronos grabbed his shoulder, forcing Methos to face him. "_Own_ you? No. But don't pretend you don't owe me."

Methos shook his head. "Kronos, I just lost someone I lived with for nearly fifty years. Let me miss her a little."

Kronos' blue eyes widened. "You _regret_ it, don't you?" He said it as if it was a huge revelation.

"She's dead. I'm as much to blame for that as they were."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it? People were scared, Kronos. When people are afraid they strike out at things they don't understand. I've lived long enough to learn that lesson several times over. I had the chance to do something…"

"Afraid?" Kronos repeated. "You think they held your woman down and hacked her head off because they were _afraid_?"

It was exactly what Methos thought. He frowned at Kronos. "I take it you disagree."

He moved close to Methos, his body pressing against him, pushing Methos back against the rail. "_I_ think," he said slowly, emphasising each word, "they weren't afraid _enough_."

The words shot straight to Methos' heart. It was an epiphany.

_They weren't afraid enough_.

Fear was a source of power.

Power.

For fifty years Methos held power on Kalliste. Power thrust on him, not chosen, but power accepted and, more importantly, willingly retained. He had been one of the most powerful men on the island. He relinquished that power when the responsibility associated with it became more than he wanted; his personal responsibilities, after Kaspian became immortal, were more important. But no one on Kalliste would have dared to accuse him or move against him when he held that power. Kronos was right about that.

Power.

There were many kinds of power.

Methos cast his mind back to the night Bethia died, remembering Kronos interrupting their lovemaking, remembering his eyes on Bethia, no attempt made to conceal his lust. Methos knew him better now; well enough to suspect that if Kronos truly wanted Bethia, he would have done something about it. Yet he never had. He wanted something from Methos, enough to make him stay on Methos' good side. If Methos understood what Kronos wanted from him, he would have power over Kronos.

As it was, the balance between them was too delicate, the scales tipped slightly in Kronos' favour because he had, after all, saved Methos' life that night. Methos did owe him. And he had already surrendered too much.

But…power. There was a thought.

When he turned back to Kronos, he was smiling.

***

#### Athens, 1995 CE

"…It was Yasir's quickening that changed Kas. By the time I realised what was happening to him, it was too late. He had passed the point where anyone could help him." Methos leaned against the cool tiles wearily. "And by then I was too deep into…my own problems…Kas had no one to stop him, nothing holding him back."

"You had to kill him," Joe guessed, his voice filled with compassion.

_I wish you were right, Joe…_ "No," Methos said. He had given Joe a _very_ edited version of what happened on Kalliste. Only the parts about Caspian, no mention of the others or even Caspian's full name. Just Kas. He wasn't up to explaining how the eruption on Santorini fit into the picture and he certainly wasn't going to tell Joe what happened next. They didn't become the Four Horsemen until years after the eruption, but that was where it started.

"No," he said again. "I should have taken his head. I wanted to, sometimes, but no. He's still alive, locked up in an asylum somewhere."

"I'm sorry," Joe said. "But I can't stay here and let that happen to MacLeod. He's my _friend_, damn it!"

That was what Methos feared most. According to Joe, MacLeod let him walk away once. That in itself told Methos Mac wasn't completely lost - Kaspian would have killed Joe, or worse, without hesitation, for what he tried to do. But if Joe went after Mac now, if this really was a dark quickening, Joe would end up dead.

The thought made Methos cold with fear.

There was no acceptable alternative here. MacLeod had taken a dark quickening. To do nothing was unthinkable. To let Joe go after him was even worse. Only a few years earlier, Methos would have called Darius for help and for MacLeod Darius would have done it, but Darius was dead. Which left Methos with only one option: he had to go after MacLeod himself and pray he wasn't too late to help him.

But what if it _was_ too late.

What if MacLeod challenged Methos?

Methos could kill Duncan if he had to. That wasn't the problem. The problem was the dark quickening. According to Joe, the evil overwhelmed Kol'tec and was then passed to MacLeod. Which implied it would be passed to anyone who took MacLeod's head…if anyone could. But Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was a decent man at his core. A good man. He tried to kill Ryan, but that could be interpreted as part of the Game. He let Joe leave; Joe was mortal. That core of decency was still in him. Duncan just needed to remember it.

Methos, on the other hand…

_No matter what you think MacLeod has become, Joe, it's sweetness and light compared to what I was. If I go after him and take his head…I don't dare risk it. _

"Where is he, Joe?"

He heard Joe release his breath in a long sigh. "Thanks, Adam. He's on a tanker headed for Le Havre. He's due to dock in three days."

Methos took a deep breath of his own. "Good, that gives me some time. Joe, I'll do everything I can, but I need a promise from you."

"Anything."

Two things, Joe. I need you to stay in Seacouver, no matter what happens. Get a team on MacLeod, but stay out of it yourself."

"Done."

"And second…if I don't make it back, take care of Alexa for me. She'll need a friend."

"You know I will." Joe hesitated, then added, "Adam…don't do anything stupid out there, will you?"

"It's too late for that, Joe. I'll be on a plane as soon as I figure out what to tell Alexa."

"Well…good luck. And thanks, Adam. I owe you one."

Methos smiled, even though Joe couldn't see it. "No, this makes us even. Bye, Joe."

**~ The End ~**


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